Pious Selinda goes to prayers,
If I but ask the favour;
And yet the tender fool's in tears,
When she believes I'll leave her.
Would I were free from this restraint,
Or else had hopes to win her;
Would she could make of me a saint,
Or I of her a sinner.
The Dean of Paul's did search for his wife
And where d'ee think he found her?
Even upon Sir John Selby's bed,
As flat as any flounder.
A grave wise man that had a great rich lady,
Such as perhaps in these days found there may be,
Did think she played him false and more than think,
Save that in wisdom he thereat did wink.
Howbeit one time disposed to sport and play
Thus to his wife he pleasantly did say,
‘Since strangers lodge their arrows in thy quiver,
Dear dame, I pray you yet the cause deliver,
If you can tell the cause and not dissemble,
How all our children me so much resemble?’
The lady blushed but yet this answer made
‘Though I have used some traffic in the trade,
And must confess, as you have touched before,
My bark was sometimes steered with foreign oar,
Yet stowed I no man's stuff but first persuaded
The bottom with your ballast full was laded.’
And believing she was a maid,
I took her to the river,
but already she was married.
It was almost by agreement
upon Saint James's night.
The street-lamps went out
and the crickets lit up.
On the very last corner
I touched her sleeping breasts,
and like bouquets of hyacinth
they opened at once to my caress.
The starch of her petticoat
was sounding in my ears
like a piece of silk
that is rent by ten knives.
Without light on the tree-tops
the trees have grown huge
and far from the river
barks an horizon of dogs.
The brambles were passed,
the reeds and the furze.
Beneath the bun of her hair
I made a hollow in the earth.
I took off my tie,
she took off her dress.
I, my revolver-belt,
she her four bodices.
Not spikenard nor snail
have a skin so smooth,
nor do crystals shine
so brilliant in the moon.
Her thighs escaped from me
like two startled trout,
half full of cold
and half full of light.
By the best of all roads
that night I galloped
on a mother-of-pearl filly
without bridle or stirrups.
The things she said to me,
as a man, I won't repeat.
The light of understanding
has made me discreet.
I took her from the river
soiled with kisses and sand.
The swords of the lilies
fought with the wind.
A genuine gypsy,
I behaved as is proper,
and gave her a large work-box
of straw-coloured satin.
And I wished not to love her,
for though she was married,
she said she was a maiden
when I took her by the river.
Translated from the Spanish by
A. L. Lloyd
She loves, and she confesses too;
There's then at last, no more to do.
The happy work's entirely done;
Enter the town which thou hast won;
The fruits of conquest now begin;
Iô triumph! Enter in.
What's this, ye Gods, what can it be?
Remains there still an enemy?
Bold honour stands up in the gate,
And would yet capitulate;
Have I o'recome all real foes,
And shall this phantom me oppose?
Noisy Nothing! stalking Shade!
By what witchcraft wert thou made?
Empty cause of solid harms!
But I shall find out counter-charms
Thy airy devilship to remove
From this circle here of love.
Sure I shall rid myself of thee
By the night's obscurity,
And obscurer secrecy.
Unlike to every other spright,
Thou attempt'st not men t'affright,
Nor appear'st but in the light.
Naked she lay; clasped in my longing arms,
I filled with love, and she all over charms;
Both equally inspired with eager fire,
Melting through kindness, flaming in desire.
With arms, legs, lips close clinging to embrace,
She clips me to her breast, and sucks me to her face.
Her nimble tongue, Love's lesser lightning, played
Within my mouth, and to my thoughts conveyed
Swift orders that I should prepare to throw
The all-dissolving thunderbolt below.
My fluttering soul, sprung with the pointed kiss,
Hangs hovering o'er her balmy brinks of bliss.
But whilst her busy hand would guide that part
Which should convey my soul up to her heart,
In liquid raptures I dissolve all o'er,
Melt into sperm, and spend at every pore.
A touch from any part of her had done ‘t:
Her hand, her foot, her very looks a cunt.
Smiling, she chides in a kind murmuring noise,
And from her body wipes the clammy joys,
When, with a thousand kisses wandering o'er
My panting bosom, ‘Is there then no more?’
She cries. ‘All this to love and rapture's due;
Must we not pay a debt to pleasure too?’
But I, the most forlorn, lost man alive,
To show my wished obedience vainly strive:
I sigh, alas! and kiss, but cannot swive.
Eager desires confound my first intent,
Succeeding shame does more success prevent,
And rage at last confirms me impotent.
Ev'n her fair hand, which might bid heat return
To frozen age, and make cold hermits burn,
Applied to my dead cinder, warms no more
Than fire to ashes could past flames restore.
Trembling, confused, despairing, limber, dry,
A wishing, weak, unmoving lump I lie.
This dart of love, whose piercing point, oft tried,
With virgin blood ten thousand maids have dyed;
Which nature still directed with such art
That it through every cunt reached every heart –
Stiffly resolved, 'twould carelessly invade
Woman or man, nor ought its fury stayed:
Where'er it pierced, a cunt it found or made –
Now languid lies in this unhappy hour,
Shrunk up and sapless like a withered flower.
Thou treacherous, base deserter of my flame,
False to my passion, fatal to my fame,
Through what mistaken magic dost thou prove
So true to lewdness, so untrue to love?
What oyster-cinder-beggar-common whore
Did'st thou e'er fail in all thy life before?
When vice, disease, and scandal lead the way,
With what officious haste dost thou obey!
Like a rude, roaring hector in the streets
Who scuffles, cuffs, and justles all he meets,
But if his King or country claim his aid,
The rakehell villain shrinks and hides his head;
Ev'n so thy brutal valour is displayed,
Breaks every stew, does each small whore invade,
But when great Love the onset does command,
Base recreant to thy prince, thou dar'st not stand.
Worst part of me, and henceforth hated most,
Through all the town a common fucking post,
On whom each whore relieves her tingling cunt
As hogs on gates do rub themselves and grunt,
Mayst thou to ravenous chancres be a prey,
Or in consuming weepings waste away;
May strangury and stone thy days attend;
May'st thou ne'er piss, who didst refuse to spend
When all my joys did on false thee depend.
And may ten thousand abler pricks agree
To do the wronged Corinna right for thee.
limber limp
stew brothel
weepings discharges of moisture from the body
strangury slow and painful urination
stone gallstone
‘O ‘Melia, my dear, this does everything crown!
Who could have supposed I should meet you in Town?
And whence such fair garments, such prosperi-ty?’ –
‘O didn't you know I'd been ruined?’ said she.
– ‘You left us in tatters, without shoes or socks,
Tired of digging potatoes, and spudding up docks;
And now you've gay bracelets and bright feathers three!' –
‘Yes: that's how we dress when we're ruined,’ said she.
– ‘At home in the barton you said “thee” and “thou,”
And “thik oon,” and “thes oon,” and “t'other”; but now
Your talking quite fits ‘ee for high compa-ny!’ –
‘Some polish is gained with one's ruin,’ said she.
– ‘Your hands were like paws then, your face blue and bleak
But now I'm bewitched by your delicate cheek,
And your little gloves fit as on any la-dy!’ –
‘We never do work when we're ruined,’ said she.
– ‘You used to call home-life a hag-ridden dream,
And you'd sigh, and you'd sock; but at present you seem
To know not of megrims or melancho-ly!' –
‘True. One's pretty lively when ruined,’ said she.
– ‘I wish I had feathers, a fine sweeping gown,
And a delicate face, and could strut about Town!’ –
‘My dear – a raw country girl, such as you be,
Cannot quite expect that. You ain't ruined,’ said she.
No – I'll endure ten thousand deaths,
Ere any further I'll comply;
Oh! sir, no man on earth that breathes
Had ever yet his hand so high!
Oh! take your sword, and pierce my heart,
Undaunted see me meet the wound,
Oh! will you act a Tarquin's part?
A second Lucrece you have found.
Thus to the pressing Corydon,
Poor Florimel, unhappy maid!
Fearing by love to be undone,
In broken dying accents said.
Delia, who held the conscious door,
Inspired by truth and brandy, smiled,
Knowing that, sixteen months before,
Our Lucrece had her second child.
And, hark ye! madam, cried the bawd,
None of your flights, your high-rope dodging:
Be civil here, or march abroad;
Oblige the squire, or quit the lodging.
Oh! have I – Florimel went on –
Have I then lost my Delia's aid?
Where shall forsaken virtue run,
If by her friends she is betrayed?
Oh! curse on empty friendship's name!
Lord, what is all our future view!
Then, dear destroyer of my fame,
Let my last succour be to you!
From Delia's rage, and Fortune's frown,
A wretched love-sick maid deliver!
Oh! tip me but another crown,
Dear sir, and make me yours for ever.
Two or three visits, and two or three bows,
Two or three civil things, two or three vows,
Two or three kisses, with two or three sighs,
Two or three Jesus's – and let me dies –
Two or three squeezes, and two or three towses,
With two or three thousand pound lost at their houses,
Can never fail cuckolding two or three spouses.
towses tickles
whose husband is invited to a feast with them. The poet instructs her how to behave herself in his company
Your husband will be with us at the treat;
May that be the last supper he shall eat.
And am poor I, a guest invited there,
Only to see, while he may touch the Fair?
To see you kiss and hug your nauseous Lord,
While his lewd hand descends below the board?
Now wonder not that Hippodamia's charms,
At such a sight, the Centaurs urged to arms;
That in a rage they threw their cups aside,
Assailed the bridegroom, and would force the bride.
I am not half a horse (I would I were):
Yet hardly can from you my hands forbear.
Take then my counsel; which, observed, may be
Of some importance both to you and me.
Be sure to come before your man be there;
There's nothing can be done; but come howe'er.
Sit next him (that belongs to decency);
But tread upon my foot in passing by.
Read in my looks what silently they speak,
And slily, with your eyes, your answer make.
My lifted eyebrow shall declare my pain;
My right-hand to his fellow shall complain;
And on the back a letter shall design;
Besides a note that shall be writ in wine.
When'er you think upon our last embrace,
With your forefinger gently touch your face.
If any word of mine offend my dear,
Pull, with your hand, the velvet of your ear.
If you are pleased with what I do or say,
Handle your rings, or with your fingers play.
As suppliants use at altars, hold the board,
Whene'er you wish the Devil may take your Lord.
When he fills for you, never touch the cup;
But bid th' officious cuckold drink it up.
The waiter on those services employ.
Drink you, and I will snatch it from the boy:
Watching the part where your sweet mouth hath been,
And thence, with eager lips, will suck it in.
If he, with clownish manners, thinks it fit
To taste, and offer you the nasty bit,
Reject his greasy kindness, and restore
Th' unsavory morsel he had chewed before.
Nor let his arms embrace your neck, nor rest
Your tender cheek upon his hairy breast.
Let not his hand within your bosom stray,
And rudely with your pretty bubbies play.
But above all, let him no kiss receive;
That's an offence I never can forgive.
Do not, O do not that sweet mouth resign,
Lest I rise up in arms, and cry, 'Tis mine.
I shall thrust in betwixt, and void of fear
The manifest adulterer will appear.
These things are plain to sight; but more I doubt
What you conceal beneath your petticoat.
Take not his leg between your tender thighs,
Nor, with your hand, provoke my foe to rise.
How many love-inventions I deplore,
Which I, myself, have practised all before!
How oft have I been forced the robe to lift
In company to make a homely shift
For a bare bout, ill huddled o'er in haste,
While o'er my side the Fair her mantle cast.
You to your husband shall not be so kind;
But, lest you should, your mantle leave behind.
Encourage him to tope; but kiss him not,
Nor mix one drop of water in his pot.
If he be fuddled well, and snores apace
Then we may take advice from Time and Place.
When all depart, when compliments are loud,
Be sure to mix among the thickest crowd.
There I will be, and there we cannot miss,
Perhaps to grubble, or at least to kiss.
Alas, what length of labour I employ,
Just to secure a short and transient joy!
For night must part us; and when night is come,
Tucked underneath his arms he leads you home.
He locks you in; I follow to the door,
His fortune envy, and my own deplore.
He kisses you, he more than kisses too;
Th' outrageous cuckold thinks it all his due.
But, add not to his joy, by your consent,
And let it not be given, but only lent.
Return no kiss, nor move in any sort;
Make it a dull and a malignant sport.
Had I my wish, he should no pleasure take,
But slubber o'er your business for my sake.
And what e'er Fortune shall this night befall,
Coax me tomorrow, by forswearing all.
Translated from the Latin by
John Dryden
grubble grope slubber hurry
The rain set early in tonight,
The sullen wind was soon awake.
It tore the elm-tops down for spite,
And did its worst to vex the lake:
I listened with heart fit to break.
When glided in Porphyria; straight
She shut the cold out and the storm,
And kneeled and made the cheerless grate
Blaze up, and all the cottage warm;
Which done, she rose, and from her form
Withdrew the dripping cloak and shawl,
And laid her soiled gloves by, untied
Her hat and let the damp hair fall,
And, last, she sat down by my side
And called me. When no voice replied,
She put my arm about her waist,
And made her smooth white shoulder bare,
And all her yellow hair displaced,
And, stooping, made my cheek lie there,
And spread, o'er all, her yellow hair,
Murmuring how she loved me – she
Too weak, for all her heart's endeavour,
To set its struggling passion free
From pride, and vainer ties dissever,
And give herself to me for ever.
But passion sometimes would prevail,
Nor could tonight's gay feast restrain
A sudden thought of one so pale
For love of her, and all in vain:
So, she was come through wind and rain.
Be sure I looked up at her eyes
Happy and proud; at last I knew
Porphyria worshipped me: surprise
Made my heart swell, and still it grew
While I debated what to do.
That moment she was mine, mine, fair,
Perfectly pure and good: I found
A thing to do, and all her hair
In one long yellow string I wound
Three times her little throat around,
And strangled her. No pain felt she;
I am quite sure she felt no pain.
As a shut bud that holds a bee,
I warily oped her lids: again
Laughed the blue eyes without a stain.
And I untightened next the tress
About her neck; her cheek once more
Blushed bright beneath my burning kiss:
I propped her head up as before,
Only, this time my shoulder bore
Her head, which droops upon it still:
The smiling rosy little head,
So glad it has its utmost will,
That all it scorned at once is fled,
And I, its love, am gained instead!
Porphyria's love: she guessed not how
Her darling one wish would be heard.
And thus we sit together now,
And all night long we have not stirred,
And yet God has not said a word!
Nine adulteries, 12 liaisons, 64 fornications and something approaching a rape
Rest nightly upon the soul of our delicate friend Florialis,
And yet the man is so quiet and reserved in demeanour
That he passes for both bloodless and sexless.
Bastidides, on the contrary, who both talks and writes of nothing save copulation,
Has become the father of twins,
But he accomplished this feat at some cost;
He had to be four times cuckold.
Filling her compact & delicious body
with chicken páprika, she glanced at me
twice.
Fainting with interest, I hungered back
and only the fact of her husband & four other people
kept me from springing on her
or falling at her little feet and crying
‘You are the hottest one for years of night
Henry's dazed eyes
have enjoyed, Brilliance.' I advanced upon
(despairing) my spumoni. – Sir Bones: is stuffed,
de world, wif feeding girls.
– Black hair, complexion Latin, jewelled eyes
downcast… The slob beside her feasts… What wonders is
she sitting on, over there?
The restaurant buzzes. She might as well be on Mars.
Where did it all go wrong? There ought to be a law against Henry.
– Mr Bones: there is.
How did the party go in Portman Square?
I cannot tell you; Juliet was not there.
And how did Lady Gaster's party go?
Juliet was next me and I do not know.
Adulterers and customers of whores
And cunning takers of virginities
Caper from bed to bed, but not because
The flesh is pricked to infidelities.
The body is content with homely fare;
It is the avid, curious mind that craves
New pungent sauce and strips the larder bare,
The palate and not hunger that enslaves.
Don Juan never was a sensualist:
Scheming fresh triumphs, artful, wary, tense,
He took no pleasure in the breasts he kissed
But gorged his ravenous mind and starved each sense.
An itching, tainted intellectual pride
Goads the salt lecher till he has to know
Whether all women's eyes grow bright and wide,
All wives and whores and virgins shudder so.
Hunters of women burn to show their skill,
Yet when the panting quarry has been caught
Mere force of habit drives them to the kill:
The soft flesh is less savoury than their sport.
My husband has a crush on Myrna Loy,
and likes to rent her movies, for a treat.
It makes some evenings harder to enjoy.
The list of actresses who might employ
him as their slave is too long to repeat.
(My husband has a crush on Myrna Loy,
Carole Lombard, Paulette Goddard, coy
Jean Arthur with that voice as dry as wheat…)
It makes some evenings harder to enjoy.
Does he confess all this just to annoy
a loyal spouse? I know I can't compete.
My husband has a crush on Myrna Loy.
And can't a woman have her dreamboats? Boy,
I wouldn't say my life is incomplete,
but some evening I could certainly enjoy
two hours with Cary Grant as my own toy.
I guess, though, we were destined not to meet.
My husband has a crush on Myrna Loy,
which makes some evenings harder to enjoy.
I, being born a woman and distressed
By all the needs and notions of my kind,
Am urged by your propinquity to find
Your person fair, and feel a certain zest
To bear your body's weight upon my breast:
So subtly is the fume of life designed,
To clarify the pulse and cloud the mind,
And leave me once again undone, possessed.
Think not for this, however, the poor treason
Of my stout blood against my staggering brain,
I shall remember you with love, or season
My scorn with pity, – let me make it plain:
I find this frenzy insufficient reason
For conversation when we meet again.
She keeps the lies and popular support.
I take the condemnation and the truth.
I claim the chase; she has already caught.
Her permanence is balanced by my youth.
The afternoons are mine. She hogs the nights,
The public sphere encompassed by her rings.
She has established title. All the rights
Are hers. How fairly we divide these things.
Each of us has a quite substantial list
Of goodies, and I wouldn't choose to swap,
Like football cards, the knowledge I exist
For both the mortgage and the weekly shop,
My inventory for hers, if someone were
To ask, or wonder, what I might prefer.
She took the credit for the card I sent.
It's bad enough that you are hers, not mine.
How dare she, after all the time I spent
Choosing and writing out your Valentine,
Pretend it came from her, after the date
And its significance had slipped her mind?
She saw her chance before it was too late
And claimed my card – mysterious, unsigned –
Became the face behind my question mark.
Now there's too much at stake. She can't confess.
She has conspired to keep you in the dark
Which fact, she knows, would make you like her less.
Her lips are sealed. She lied and she forgot
Valentine's Day. I didn't. Mine are not.
Walking with you and another lady
In wooded parkland, the whispering grass
Ran its fingers through our guessing silence
And the trees opened into a shady
Unexpected clearing where we sat down.
I think the candour of the light dismayed us.
We talked about desire and being jealous,
Our conversation a loose single gown
Or a white picnic tablecloth spread out
Like a book of manners in the wilderness.
‘Show me,’ I said to our companion, ‘what
I have much coveted, your breast's mauve star.’
And she consented. Oh neither these verses
Nor my prudence, love, can heal your wounded stare.
Robene sat on gud grene hill
Kepand a flok of fe;
Mirry Makyne said him till:
‘Robene, thow rew on me!
I haif the luvit lowd and still
Thir yeiris two or thre;
My dule in dern bot gif thow dill,
Dowtless but dreid I de.’
Robene ansuerit: ‘Be the Rude,
Nathing of lufe I knaw,
Bot keipis my scheip under yone wude –
Lo quhair thay raik on raw!
Quhat hes marrit the in thy mude,
Makyne, to me thow schaw:
Or quhat is lufe, or to be lude?
Fane wald I leir that law.’
‘At luvis lair gife thow will leir,
Tak thair ane ABC:
Be heynd, courtas and fair of feir,
Wyse, hardy and fre;
So that no denger do the deir,
Quhat dule in dern thow dre,
Preiss the with pane at all poweir –
Be patient and previe.’
Robene anserit hir agane:
‘I wait nocht quhat is luve,
Bot I haif mervell in certane
Quhat makis the this wanrufe;
The weddir is fair and I am fane,
My scheip gois haill aboif;
And we wald play us in this plane
Thay wald us bayth reproif’.
‘Robene, tak tent unto my taill,
And wirk all as I reid,
And thow sail haif my hairt all haill,
Eik and my madinheid:
Sen God sendis bute for baill
And for murnyng remeid,
I dern with the bot gif I daill,
Dowtles I am bot deid.’
‘Makyne, tomorne this ilka tyde,
And ye will meit me heir,
Peraventure my scheip ma gang besyd
Quhill we haif liggit full neir –
Bot mawgre haif I and I byd,
Fra thay begin to steir;
Quhat lyis on hairt I will nocht hyd;
Makyn, than mak gud cheir.’
‘Robene, thow reivis me roif and rest –
I luve bot the allone.’
‘Makyne, adew; the sone gois west,
The day is neir-hand gone.’
‘Robene, in dule I am so drest
That lufe wil be my bone.’
‘Ga lufe, Makyne, quhairever thow list,
For lemman I lue none.’
‘Robene, I stand in sic a styll;
I sicht – and that full sair.’
‘Makyne, I haif bene heir this quhyle;
At hame God gif I wair!’
‘My huny Robene, talk ane quhill,
Gif thow will do na mair.’
‘Makyne, sum uthir man begyle,
For hamewart I will fair.’
Robene on his wayis went
Als licht as leif of tre;
Mawkin murnit in hir intent
And trowd him nevir to se.
Robene brayd attour the bent;
Than Mawkyne cryit on hie:
‘Now ma thow sing, for I am schent!
Quhat alis lufe at me?’
Mawkyne went hame withowttin faill;
Full wery eftir cowth weip:
Than Robene in a ful fair daill
Assemblit all his scheip.
Be that, sum pairte of Mawkynis aill
Outthrow his hairt cowd creip;
He fallowit fast thair till assaill,
And till hir tuke gude keip.
‘Abyd, abyd, thow fair Makyne!
A word for ony thing!
For all my luve it sal be thyne,
Withowttin depairting.
All haill thy harte for till haif myne
Is all my cuvating;
My scheip tomorne quhill houris nyne
Will neid of no keiping.’
‘Robene, thow hes hard soung and say
In gestis and stories auld,
The man that will nocht quhen he may
Sall haif nocht quhen he wald.
I pray to Jesu every day
Mot eik thair cairis cauld
That first preiss with the to play
Be firth, forrest or fawld.’
‘Makyne, the nicht is soft and dry,
The wedder is warme and fair,
And the grene woid rycht neir us by
To walk attour allquhair;
Thair ma na janglour us espy,
That is to lufe contrair;
Thairin, Makyne, bath ye and I
Unsene we ma repair.’
‘Robene, that warld is all away
And quyt brocht till ane end,
And nevir agane thairto perfay,
Sall it be as thow wend:
For of my pane thow maid it play,
And all in vane I spend:
And thow hes done, sa sall I say:
Murne on! I think to mend.’
‘Mawkyne, the howp of all my heill,
My hairt on the is sett,
And evirmair to the be leill,
Quhill I may leif but lett;
Nevir to faill – as utheris feill –
Quhat grace that evir I gett.’
‘Robene, with the I will nocht deill;
Adew! For thus we mett.’
Malkyne went hame blyth annewche
Attour the holttis hair:
Robene murnit, and Malkyne lewche,
Scho sang, he sichit sair –
And so left him bayth wo and wrewche,
In dolour and in cair,
Kepand his hird under a huche,
Amangis the holtis hair.
kepand keeping
fe sheep, cattle
him till to him
dule in dern sorrow in secret
dill soothe
but dreid I de I shall certainly die
raik on raw range in row
marrit perplexed
mude mind
lude loved
leir learn
lair lore
heynd gentle
feir demeanour
denger disdain
deir harm
dre endure
preiss endeavour
wanrufe restless
fane glad
haill healthy, whole
aboif up yonder
and if
tak tent give heed
reid advise
bute for baill remedy for hurt
bot gif but if, unless
mawgre half I and I am uneasy if
reivis robbest
roif quiet
drest beset
bone bane
lemman mistress
styll plight
sicht sigh
intent mind
brayd strode
bent coarse grass
schent destroyed
alis ails
cowth did
be that by the time that
till to
tuke gude keip centred his thoughts,
paid attention
hard heard
gestis romances
mot eik may add to
cairis sorrows
be by
janglour talebearer
wend weened
howp hope
leill true
but lett without hindrance
annewche enough
holttis hair grey woodlands
lewche laughed
wrewche peevish
huche cliff
Shall I, wasting in despair,
Die because a woman's fair?
Or make pale my cheeks with care
'Cause another's rosy are?
Be she fairer than the day,
Or the flowery meads in May,
If she be not so to me,
What care I how fair she be?
Should my heart be grieved or pined
‘Cause I see a woman kind?
Or a well disposèd nature
Joinèd with a lovely feature?
Be she meeker, kinder, than
Turtle-dove or pelican,
If she be not so to me,
What care I how kind she be?
Shall a woman's virtues move
Me to perish for her love?
Or her well-deserving known
Make me quite forget my own?
Be she with that goodness blessed
Which may gain her name of Best,
If she be not such to me,
What care I how good she be?
'Cause her fortune seems too high,
Shall I play the fool and die?
Those that bear a noble mind,
Where they want of riches find,
Think what with them they would do
That without them dare to woo;
And unless that mind I see,
What care I though great she be?
Great, or good, or kind, or fair,
I will ne'er the more despair;
If she love me, this believe,
I will die ere she shall grieve;
If she slight me when I woo,
I can scorn and let her go;
For if she be not for me,
What care I for whom she be?
Oh, when I was in love with you,
Then I was clean and brave,
And miles around the wonder grew
How well did I behave.
And now the fancy passes by,
And nothing will remain,
And miles around they'll say that I
Am quite myself again.
In former days we'd both agree
That you were me, and I was you.
What has now happened to us two,
That you are you, and I am me?
Translated from the Sanskrit by
John Brough
Lovers in the act dispense
With such meum-tuum sense
As might warningly reveal
What they must not pick or steal,
And their nostrum is to say:
‘I and you are both away.’
After, when they disentwine
You from me and yours from mine,
Neither can be certain who
Was that I whose mine was you.
To the act again they go
More completely not to know.
Theft is theft and raid is raid
Though reciprocally made.
Lovers, the conclusion is
Doubled sighs and jealousies
In a single heart that grieves
For lost honour among thieves.
Go, let the fatted calf be killed;
My Prodigal's come home at last;
With noble resolutions filled,
And filled with sorrow for the past.
No more will burn with love or wine:
But quite has left his women and his swine.
Welcome, ah welcome my poor Heart;
Welcome; I little thought, I'll swear,
(‘Tis now so long since we did part)
Ever again to see thee here:
Dear Wanderer, since from me you fled,
How often have I heard that thou wert dead!
Hast thou not found each woman's breast
(The lands where thou hast travelled)
Either by savages possessed,
Or wild, and uninhabited?
What joy could'st take, or what repose
In countries so uncivilized as those?
Lust, the scorching Dog-star, here
Rages with immoderate heat;
Whilst Pride, the rugged Northern Bear,
In others makes the cold too great.
And where these are temperate known,
The soil's all barren sand, or rocky stone.
When once or twice you chanced to view
A rich, well-governed heart,
Like China, it admitted you
But to the frontier-part.
From Paradise shut for evermore,
What good is't that an angel kept the door?
Well fare the pride, and the disdain,
And vanities with beauty joined,
I ne'er had seen this Heart again,
If any fair one had been kind:
My dove, but once let loose, I doubt
Would ne'er return, had not the flood been out.
Out upon it, I have loved
Three whole days together;
And am like to love three more,
If it hold fair weather.
Time shall moult away his wings
Ere he shall discover
In the whole wide world again
Such a constant lover.
But a pox upon't, no praise
There is due at all to me:
Love with me had made no stays,
Had it any been but she.
Had it any been but she
And that very very face,
There had been at least ere this
A dozen dozen in her place.
All my past life is mine no more;
The flying hours are gone,
Like transitory dreams given o'er
Whose images are kept in store
By memory alone.
Whatever is to come is not:
How can it then be mine?
The present moment's all my lot,
And that, as fast as it is got,
Phyllis, is wholly thine.
Then talk not of inconstancy,
False hearts, and broken vows;
If I, by miracle, can be
This livelong minute true to thee,
‘Tis all that heaven allows.
Comrade, with your finger on the playback switch,
Listen carefully to each love-moan,
And enter in the file which cry is real, and which
A mere performance for your microphone.
Why should you swear I am forsworn,
Since thine I vowed to be?
Lady it is already morn,
And ‘twas last night I swore to thee
That fond impossibility.
Have I not loved thee much and long,
A tedious twelve hours' space?
I must all other Beauties wrong,
And rob thee of a new embrace;
Could I still dote upon thy face.
Not, but all joy in thy brown hair,
By others may be found;
But I must search the black and fair
Like skilful mineralists that sound
For treasure in un-plowed-up ground.
Then, if when I have loved my round,
Thou provest the pleasant she;
With spoils of meaner Beauties crowned,
I laden will return to thee,
Ev'n sated with variety.
Lycóris darling, once I burned for you,
Today Glycera heats me like a stew:
She's what you were then but are not now –
A change of name requires no change of vow.
Translated from the Latin by
Peter Porter
I can love both fair and brown,
Her whom abundance melts, and her whom want betrays,
Her who loves loneness best, and her who masks and plays,
Her whom the country formed, and whom the town,
Her who believes, and her who tries,
Her who still weeps with spongy eyes,
And her who is dry cork, and never cries;
I can love her, and her, and you and you,
I can love any, so she be not true.
Will no other vice content you?
Will it not serve your turn to do, as did your mothers?
Or have you old vices spent, and now would find out others?
Or doth a fear, that men are true, torment you?
Oh we are not, be not you so,
Let me, and do you, twenty know.
Rob me, but bind me not, and let me go.
Must I, who came to travail thorough you,
Grow your fixed subject, because you are true?
Venus heard me sigh this song,
And by Love's sweetest part, variety, she swore,
She heard not this till now; and and't should be so no more.
She went, examined, and returned ere long,
And said, alas, Some two or three
Poor heretics in love there be,
Which think to stablish dangerous constancy.
But I have told them, since you will be true,
You shall be true to them, who are false to you.
Don't you care for my love? she said bitterly.
I handed her the mirror, and said:
Please address these questions to the proper person!
Please make all requests to head-quarters!
In all matters of emotional importance
please approach the supreme authority direct! –
So I handed her the mirror.
And she would have broken it over my head,
but she caught sight of her own reflection
and that held her spellbound for two seconds
while I fled.
She who is always in my thoughts prefers
Another man, and does not think of me.
Yet he seeks for another's love, not hers;
And some poor girl is grieving for my sake.
Why then, the devil take
Both her and him; and love; and her; and me.
Translated from the Sanskrit by
John Brough
You smiled, you spoke, and I believed,
By every word and smile deceived.
Another man would hope no more;
Nor hope I what I hoped before:
But let not this last wish be vain;
Deceive, deceive me once again!
‘Suddenly she slapped me, hard across the face.
I implored, but she declined to have any further
Social or sexual (so she put it) intercourse with me.
Neither would she give me either a personal picture
Or a lock of her most beautiful hair.
Indeed, she demanded, her exquisite voice
Quite hard, the return of her handkerchief
And any other things (I murmured, “mementoes,”
But she repeated “things”) I might have stolen
From her in my privileged position as her servant.
God only knew what had made her ask me
Fetch her the bathrobe that terrible night.
(“That beautiful night,” I recollected aloud.)
Did I believe our positions were reversed?
(I whitened at the accusation.) Well, then,
She wished to make clear now and for so long
As the relationship (“Madam!” cried I) lasted,
That it could only do so if I went to bed first,
Where she would come at her pleasure.
I could make no clearer sign of my heartfelt
Gratitude and infinite relief at these words
Than by the impassioned and repeated kissing,
There and then, of her magnificent left breast
Which had come out of hiding towards the end
Of her peroration. Whereupon she slapped me again.’
Absent from thee, I languish still;
Then ask me not, when I return?
The straying fool ‘twill plainly kill
To wish all day, all night to mourn.
Dear! from thine arms then let me fly,
That my fantastic mind may prove
The torments it deserves to try
That tears my fixed heart from my love.
When, wearied with a world of woe,
To thy safe bosom I retire
Where love and peace and truth does flow,
May I contented there expire,
Lest, once more wandering from that heaven,
I fall on some base heart unblessed,
Faithless to thee, false, unforgiven,
And lose my everlasting rest.
Why have such scores of lovely, gifted girls
Married impossible men?
Simple self-sacrifice may be ruled out,
And missionary endeavour, nine times out often.
Repeat ‘impossible men’: not merely rustic,
Foul-tempered or depraved
(Dramatic foils chosen to show the world
How well women behave, and always have behaved).
Impossible men: idle, illiterate,
Self-pitying, dirty, sly,
For whose appearance even in City parks
Excuses must be made to casual passers-by.
Has God's supply of tolerable husbands
Fallen, in fact, so low?
Or do I always over-value woman
At the expense of man?
Do I?
It might be so.
I write in praise of the solitary act:
of not feeling a trespassing tongue
forced into one's mouth, one's breath
smothered, nipples crushed against the
ribcage, and that metallic tingling
in the chin set off by a certain odd nerve:
unpleasure. Just to avoid those eyes would help –
such eyes as a young girl draws life from,
listening to the vegetal
rustle within her, as his gaze
stirs polypal fronds in the obscure
sea-bed of her body, and her own eyes blur.
There is much to be said for abandoning
this no longer novel exercise –
for not ‘participating in
a total experience’ – when
one feels like the lady in Leeds who
had seen The Sound of Music eighty-six times;
or more, perhaps, like the school drama mistress
producing A Midsummer Night's Dream
for the seventh year running, with
yet another cast from 5B.
Pyramus and Thisbe are dead, but
the hole in the wall can still be troublesome.
I advise you, then, to embrace it without
encumbrance. No need to set the scene,
dress up (or undress), make speeches.
Five minutes of solitude are
enough – in the bath, or to fill
that gap between the Sunday papers and lunch.